by G Lawrence
He believed Katherine and Mary were being self-centred, wilful, and disobedient. He would teach them their place, punish them until they obeyed. There was a cold streak of spite in my husband. No doubt he reasoned, as I had, that our enemies had made us suffer, and some retribution was deserved. But still, witnessing Henry’s mirthful malevolence made me nauseous.
That gleeful, ugly face he wears, I thought … was that what I looked like when I considered vengeance? That cold, cruel laugh… was that how I had sounded when my chamberlain told me about Katherine’s destroyed badges?
There is nothing as distasteful as seeing our sins mirrored in the face of one we love. I suffered instant remorse for demanding the blanket and my wounded desire to be a better person kindled anew. I did not want my child to look into my face and see the expression I saw that night on Henry’s.
“You have fallen quiet,” he said, glancing up from the huge platter of lampreys he was devouring with unbelievable speed. “Are you unwell, sweetheart?”
I started. I had been staring at him without realising it. “No,” I said. “I am well.”
“It is the child,” Henry said with a lofty air of arrogant wisdom. “When a woman carries a baby, her thoughts are taken away by it. That is why women become forgetful, and drift off in the later months.”
I nodded. “Yes,” I said. “That must be it.”
He put his great hand over mine. “That is why God gave you to men in marriage,” he said. “When you are rendered weak, or feeble, with pregnancy or any other trial, your husbands are here to take care of you.”
For a moment I wanted to stab my husband right through the eye with my eating knife, but I merely dropped my eyes. “God knows our souls, Henry,” I murmured.
I did not want to meet his eyes.
I feared he would see the disgust in them… for him.
*
In July, as my friend Margaret informed me she was with child again, Clement issued Henry with an ultimatum; return to his wife by October, or suffer excommunication. The Pope declared that Henry had acted in open disobedience of his orders by marrying his ‘concubine’. If Henry failed to set me aside, he would suffer ‘the greater excommunication’ Clement wrote, meaning that his subjects and other princes would no more regard him as a lawful sovereign and could claim his throne. Clement suspended the final implementation of this threat until the end of September, to give Henry one last chance to redeem himself.
Clement also declared that recent attempts to strip Katherine of her rank were illegal; she was the Queen, and should be housed, treated and honoured as such. Any children from my marriage to Henry were bastards. I was nothing more than his whore. Henry had until the 1st of October to appeal, return to his wife, or refuse and be excommunicated.
No matter how angry Henry was, he feared excommunication. He feared rebellion and invasion. Another delegation was sent to Katherine, carrying the same threats and promises. They wanted Katherine to sign a letter for Clement, saying that she accepted me and her new status. Katherine took out her quill, scribbled out all offending passages, as well as every mention of the title ‘Princess Dowager’, and gave it back. It was unusable. She repeated her weary, careworn arguments, and said her daughter was England’s legitimate heir. “Never will I sign anything to the contrary,” she declared.
Cromwell’s men told Katherine that her former marriage was “detestable, abominable, execrable, and directly against the laws of God and nature.” But this had no impact. They threatened to keep Mary from her and still she did not relent. “I cannot damn my own soul,” she said. “Not even for my daughter. Neither will I slander my own good name, by saying that I have these twenty years been nothing more than a concubine. Maledictus homo qui negligit famam suam, my lords, cursed be the person who neglects their own reputation.” Katherine claimed Henry was being led astray, by me and my spite.
The men accused her of clinging to her title out of vanity, and Katherine laughed. “I am the daughter of Isabella and Ferdinand, the Most Catholic Kings,” she said. “That is honour enough for me.”
Mountjoy, who was leading the party, got a royal scolding from Henry about the way it was handled. Henry had forgotten how often Katherine had trounced him in the past and seemed to expect other men to have more success. Cromwell, cool and detached as always, said, “God and nature wronged Katherine in not making her a man.” He said that her courage would surpass all other princes in glory and fame. He went on to say he would rather have had a weak opponent, and had no love for Katherine, but he could respect her. Had I not been so afraid of what her continued defiance would mean for me and my child, I might have admired her.
She was apparently unwell. A cough had been troubling her, and when the delegation came to assault her, Katherine also could not stand. She had stepped on a pin and the wound had festered, leaving her only able to lie down on a pallet bed.
Even lying down, even wounded, abandoned and ill, Katherine had bested them.
Henry issued the order for Katherine to leave Ampthill and go to Buckden in Cambridgeshire. Cromwell, attempting to appease Spain, explained to Chapuys that England could not afford to have two women living as queens. When the hapless hare raced to Henry to object, Henry told him that Katherine’s household was only being moderately reduced. Henry did not want to bring Imperial invasion on his head along with excommunication.
Ampthill’s people came out to wave Katherine off. People wept, others shouted curses upon her enemies, and despite the fact it was now a crime to call her Queen, on pain of death, the crowds roared for Queen Katherine. All along the twenty-mile stretch of road from Ampthill to Buckden, Katherine was cheered, wept over, and honoured.
Henry was furious. I was terrified.
If the people of England accepted Clement’s verdict, if they still believed Katherine was Queen, what would become of my child? My baby would be born into a country where the people viewed him as a bastard, with no right to the throne. No more did I worry what would become of me first. I worried for my child. Perhaps this is true of all parents, or at least of all who love their children, but it was a revelation for me. Suddenly my focus had shifted. I had to save my baby from the slander and ridicule I had endured. When my child was old enough to understand the world, the world had to accept him, love him and welcome him. I wanted no half-hissed words following his footsteps. I wanted no one to doubt his rights, his legitimacy, or the place he would have in the world.
I would ensure my son never suffered as I had.
Henry issued a proclamation, declaring his first marriage had been illegal and had been dissolved. Anyone who denied our marriage, or held Katherine as Queen, would be subject to the Statue of Praemunire.
“My people have simply misunderstood,” Henry said.
I thought they understood only too well.
Another source of irritation emerged as German merchants in London erected an Imperial flag above the arms of England. Since these merchants had entertained Chapuys on the day of my coronation, I knew this was no mistake. It was a gesture of support for Katherine. I called Cromwell and told him to get the flag down. I did not care about the means, only the result. My fear became only more pronounced when other voices spoke out. James Harrison, the Parson of Leigh, was arrested for crying out “I will none for Queen but Queen Katherine! Who the devil made Nan Boleyn, that whore, queen?” He was joined by a Welshman, William ap Lli, who said he wished he could take Henry to a mountain in Wales, and there “souse the King about the ears until he had his head soft enough.” Detractors were arrested. Crowds were silenced, but it seemed just as the din of my coronation celebrations faded, Katherine’s voice was sounding all over England.
The ghost at my side had become ambitious. She hungered to be heard.
Mary was also on my mind. When Henry died, Mary might challenge my child for the throne. My child would always be younger and less experienced than his half-sister. At the moment, Henry was displeased with Mary and refused to see her, but
what if that should alter? Cromwell seemed to be thinking along the same lines as he dodged messages from Mary, and avoided Chapuys, whilst letting the ambassador know he could always write to him. But if courtiers avoided Mary out of fear, England’s people flowed to her for love.
Mary was not unaware of her power. She rode out through villages and towns and the people came out to cheer, shout words of support, and weep for their sweet Princess. She was young, but Mary was no dullard. She stopped to speak with commoners, presenting alms and food. Even though she and Katherine were not allowed to write to each other, I was sure they were. I spoke to Henry. I wanted him to command his daughter to cease going out amongst the people, and told him the villagers should be punished for cheering her.
“I will order that she hunts only in the royal parks,” he said.
But this did not stop Mary. It was easy to protest that chasing a fleeing hind had led her into a village. Simple to claim that she had arrived at a town by mistake and only tarried to drink ale for the betterment of her health. Mary and Katherine were unified in their rebellion. And, as Cromwell informed me, they had allies.
“They were seen preaching at Dover,” he said. “And again in Croydon.”
Two Observant friars had arrived in England, apparently with the express purpose of whipping up resentment. The friars appeared to be carrying letters, to be delivered to Katherine and her supporters.
“Have you told the King?” I asked.
Cromwell nodded. “And advised him not to arrest the men, yet,” he said. “Majesty, I think we should allow them to see Katherine. That way, we will uncover their purpose.”
“Anything that can persuade His Majesty that Katherine is more than just rebellious, but traitorous!”
“I will come to you as soon as I have news, Majesty,” he said. “And, you should know… Barton is becoming more outspoken by the day.”
Elizabeth Barton had been proclaiming she had seen a vision of disasters that would now befall Henry because he had married me. Crowds flocked to hear her. Disaffected masses, displeased with the sudden, rapid changes in England, flowed to their prophet, eager to hear all she had to say about maintaining the old, corrupt ways of the Church. In times of crisis, people often revert to what they understand, as though the familiar, no matter how imperfect, might protect them from the horrors of the unknown.
“The Holy Nun no longer has Warham to protect her,” I said. “And Cranmer thinks she is a fraud.”
“I have spoken with the Archbishop,” Cromwell said. “With your permission and that of the King, Majesty, we mean to bring Barton in for questioning.”
“That could be dangerous. Barton is popular.”
“Which makes her preaching also dangerous,” Cromwell said, allowing a brief, mirthless smile to flicker across his stoical face. “The time to deal politely with our detractors is done, Majesty. Opposition must be eliminated, especially if Clement follows through with his threat.”
“I wonder, at times, if Clement follows through with anything,” I said. “I wonder how he gets out of bed, for his every decision is an ordeal of pain!”
“He has proved to be an outstanding pontificator.”
“Investigate Barton,” I said. “You have my permission to join to the King’s.” I paused. “His Majesty did give permission?”
Cromwell nodded. “He is tired of her, angry at Katherine, Rome and the Emperor, and weary of his people thinking that it is their office to do his job, rather than him.”
“You need my permission not if you have that of the King,” I pointed out.
Cromwell smiled. “I understand that, Majesty, but you have always been involved in everything we do. Why should that change now?”
He did not add the rest of the sentence… “Why should that change now you are married?” I was starting to believe this was something Henry did not understand.
Chapter Fifty-Six
Windsor Castle
Summer’s End 1533
That summer was hot, muggy and vastly unpleasant for me. I had always adored summer, loved riding into the country, hunting and hawking, taking rest under the shade of generous oak trees and dancing through the long, dusky nights. None of those things could I do that year. I could not ride because of my advanced pregnancy, and travelling by litter through London only seemed to flush out people who would hiss as I passed. I could not hunt, hawk, or seek solace in the wild spaces of England. Henry wanted me to stay inside, in rooms that stank of sweat. I disobeyed him and spent time in my gardens, but even the shade of grapevine arbours could not cool my blood. Each night I tossed and turned, unable to find rest. I longed for a fresh stream, where I might strip my clothes from my sticky body and plunge into cool waters. But there was no such stream for me. There was no rest or comfort. Everything was hot, oppressive and irritating. I loved my child, but I would have done anything to give birth then, and save myself more months of discomfort and unhappiness.
I suffered greatly, becoming weak, fractious and despondent. I struggled to move, and my breathing became laboured. It was hard to do anything. I developed a cough which no potion or herb could shift and my blood burned. Sometimes I had not the energy to rise from my bed.
Henry was almost out of his mind, terrified I would die. He ceased to worry about our child. All his fear was for me. He even said once he wished I might miscarry if it would spare my life.
“Do not say such things,” I wheezed, lying in bed as he held my hand.
“I cannot lose you.”
“You will not,” I said and tried to laugh to cheer him. I ended up hacking into a linen cloth, my face red as a blood moon.
My mother arrived to care for me, and she, along with my old nurse Mary Aucher, stormed into my chambers like ancient battle goddesses. I was glad she was with me, as I had a secret to impart, one I did not know how to say to anyone else.
“I want to eat… dirt,” I whispered to her and was rewarded with a look of such astonishment that I chuckled, lapsing into my racking cough. “I know,” I said when I had recovered. “I understand it not, either. But that is what I want. Soil… chalky, clayey, dirt… When I was in my gardens last week, it was all I could do not to dive to the ground and start throwing it into my mouth.”
My mother said she had never heard of such a thing, but Mistress Aucher had. “She needs blood,” said my old nurse. “Rare meat, barely cooked, and boiled greens will help too.” She narrowed her wrinkled eyes at me. “The babe is drawing on your blood to help him grow, my lady,” she said. “That is why women’s courses cease when they are with child. Sometimes, if the babe grows fast, or large, such cravings come.”
“Thank God,” I said, falling back on my bed. “I thought I was going mad.”
“No madder than any other woman in your condition,” said my nurse with a toothless grin. She bustled off to the kitchens and issued orders. After a few days of her prescribed diet, I felt haler. The fever subsided, which meant I was only mildly roasting to death under the summer sun and the weight of pregnancy. The cough weakened, but did not depart my company entirely. After a week, I rose to go about my business. Henry almost fainted with relief when he arrived one night to find me up and about.
“I am well, Henry.” I laughed as he fell at my side. “Apparently our boy is a thirsty lad, using up all his mother’s blood as he grows.”
Henry was so grateful to Mistress Aucher and my mother that I thought he might crush them when he embraced them. They did not tell him about my predilection for dirt, and although the craving subsided, it was a good while before I could walk past a flowerbed without lusting after the soil.
“I have decided to cancel progress this year,” Henry said as he sat with me one night.
I was touched. Henry needed his time in the wild. That he would set aside his own pleasures, for love of me, was a precious act. “What if we moved to Windsor?” I asked. “Then you could hunt during the day and return to me each night.”
“We should not stray far,�
� he said, although I could see he liked the idea. “You wanted to give birth at Greenwich.”
“There will be time to come back,” I said. “And Windsor’s air would be beneficial for me.”
“Who am I to argue with you?” Henry asked, grinning. I felt so warm towards him then, it was as though all his irritating, patronising habits had taken flight and left behind the man I loved.
As we made preparations to leave for Windsor, Henry ordered a grand bed from the Treasury. It had comprised part of the ransom of the Duc de Longueville, and was rich, huge and grand. It would be placed in my rooms at Greenwich, and there I would receive state visitors. A pallet bed with a crimson canopy was also provided, on which I would actually give birth.